The Fever Tree by Jennifer McVeigh Page B

seat to keep herself from being thrown across the room, and tried to stop herself thinking about how cold and black the water was outside, and what she would do if she was thrown into it. She was scared of dying. Not of death itself, but of the truth that dying delivered. It released a fear inside her which was corrosive, and it ate into all her certainties—that life was a noble, worthwhile thing, that her parents’ deaths had meaning, that it was something other than fear which lay at the root of every action.
    Mr. Westbrook came back carrying the coffee in a large mug with a saucer held over the top to stop it from spilling. He sat down next to her, pulled a bottle from his coat pocket, and splashed a little into the mug. He spooned the hot, dark liquid into her mouth, holding the cup under her chin to catch it as it spilled. The weight of his body, the heavy line of his thigh, hip, and chest, pressed against her, holding her in place, and the spoon clattered against her teeth. The coffee was strong and it fired up her insides until her blood thickened. When she stopped shaking he placed the mug in her hand, took up a seat across the table opposite, and grinned at her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have caught that fish?”
    She couldn’t believe that he could joke at a moment like this. She had the impression that he was enjoying himself. The extremity of the storm appealed to his restless energy and gave him a sense of purpose. He didn’t seem at all afraid. Like her father, the thought of death was leaving him unchanged, and being near him gave her courage.
    She managed to smile back at him. “Thank you for pulling me off the deck.”
    His eyes didn’t leave hers, and a slow smile crept over his face. “How are you planning to repay me?”
    She looked away, embarrassed. Her teeth chattered, and she was afraid. “I may not have to.”
    “You’ll not get away that easily.” He touched the back of her hand lightly in sympathy. “A steamer has a better chance than a sailing ship. Unless the weather gets much worse, it’ll hold its course.”
    Then he said after a moment, “I was disappointed when you didn’t accept my invitation. Why didn’t you come?”
    “I don’t know.” Her words were jerky, and it was difficult for her to move her lips. The coffee mug burnt into her hands, and her fingers had begun to ache. “I think I felt awkward accepting your kindness. It was charitable, but . . .”
    “Charitable?” He laughed. With the fingers of one hand he was turning a teaspoon from end to end, over and over, on the table. “Frances, I asked you because I like you. I wanted to see you.” He had bypassed formalities and was talking straight to her. She had the feeling there were no rules for where they found themselves now. He was staring at her, and she felt she ought to say something but she didn’t trust herself to speak. He put down the spoon and rubbed at a thin red scar on his cheekbone with the thumb of his right hand. She hadn’t noticed it before.
    “How did it happen?”
    “The scar? I was with my father.”
    “When you were a child?”
    He took her hand loosely in one of his. She felt the roughness of his skin across her fingers, and watched his mouth twitch into a smile. “Frances, your concern is charming, but my father didn’t beat me. He did, however, have a furnace. A spark of metal buried itself in my cheek.”
    There was a noise behind them and they turned in their seats. A woman ran past in her nightdress. She lurched from bench to bench, trying to keep herself upright. Her face was contorted into a silent wail. A man followed, wearing nothing but his shirttails.
    Mr. Westbrook laughed. “Respectable men turned into lunatics. They’ll all be ashamed of themselves tomorrow.”
    The storm showed no signs of easing, and when she had finished the coffee he took her to her cabin, using his weight as a wedge in the narrow corridor to keep them from falling. The lamps had gone out, and